


Shadow of the Gun

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-06-09
Updated: 2000-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: What would YOU do to protect the President of the United States?





	1. Shadow of the Gun

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Shadow of the Gun**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** The Senior Staff  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** What would YOU do to protect the President of the United States?  


Undiluted morning sunshine threw sharp patterns of dark and light across the gleaming pillars of the White House. In the reception area immediately outside the Oval Office, Mrs. Landingham looked up as Margaret walked in from the main hallway. The secretary to the White House Chief of Staff spared a glance for the slightly irregular sight of four Secret Service agents standing off to one side, unmistakable in their dark suits and stern expressions, stiff and silent as always, yet for once looking rather idle.

The personal secretary to the President of the United States acknowledged Margaret's arrival with a brief nod. These two women saw so much of each other over an average day that proper greetings every time quickly lost their appeal.

"I take it he's still in there." Margaret nodded towards the firmly-shut right-hand door. It was more soundproof than most others in this building; no faint whisper of voices drifted from within to suggest that the room beyond had occupants. Still, she sounded pretty confident.

Mrs. Landingham flickered a smile. "Your boss, or mine?"

"Well, I know *your* boss isn't far away." Margaret didn't bother to look again at the motionless, forbidding figures loitering nearby like a malevolent presence. "I also know that he's running late."

"Whatever gave us away?"

Margaret shrugged. "Elementary." As a rule this President did his best not to keep people waiting, even his own security force.

Mrs. Landingham tilted her head downward, peering over the frames of her glasses in mock seriousness. "You've been reading too many mysteries."

Every head turned as the door to the Oval Office opened and sudden voices preceded a veritable procession of staff, led by the Chief Executive himself.

"So you'll take care of that snarl, Leo?" Jed Bartlet confirmed without breaking stride.

Keeping pace alongside, his Chief of Staff grinned. "Oh, I'll snarl as much as you want, Mr. President." Not so long ago, even a friend of forty-odd years might not get away with such a wisecrack in such surroundings. However, the Bartlet administration encouraged quite a familiar rapport all around. That attitude might have had something to do with this President's famous (or infamous) sense of humor. And Leo McGarry was the best judge of precisely what presidential mood prevailed at any particular time.

"Fine. Just so long as you don't snarl at *me* any more than you usually do."

Grinning as well in appreciation of the exchange, Josh Lyman slowed down so as not to crowd the President's departure; Toby Ziegler, C.J. Cregg, Sam Seaborn and Mandy Hampton obligingly log-jammed behind. When in a hurry, their Commander-in-Chief could march faster than most professional soldiers, but he didn't need a traffic snarl (no pun intended) in the relatively-narrow doorframe of his own office. Especially with four Secret Service men stepping close on his heels.

In truth, considering how many miles of White House corridor the senior staff members covered every day between offices and meeting rooms, and usually at high speed themselves, it was a bit of a relief not to dash off the moment the most recent discussion ended.

Mrs. Landingham was ready as the President headed her way, rising and presenting a portfolio with the perfect timing of long practice. He nodded briskly to her in gratitude and appreciation, hardly slowing down for the handoff. "Thank you, Mrs. Landingham. My apologies, gentlemen." This to the dark-suited bodyguards now standing alertly at attention. "We're finally off."

As the quintet moved in unison for the exit, Leo turned to retrace his steps, since his own office was on the other side of the Oval Office. Margaret stepped forward discreetly to intercept her boss before he could pass beyond her reach. One did not raise one's voice in this particular company, even to gain another's attention.

Unless it was a matter of life and death, of course.

From her perspective, facing the secretary's desk, she happened to register on the tall patio doors leading out onto the back lawn and streaming with sunlight, just as the President's party crossed her line of sight.

And screamed.

"GET DOWN!"

The United States Secret Service was trained to react to any situation without hesitating. But adrenaline is a powerful stimulant as well. Even as everyone else jerked in shock, the stark and instantaneous terror of a possible assassination attempt searing through all brains present, Margaret shot forward, tackled the President squarely from behind before he could do more than turn his head, and crashed full-length with him to the floor. A small table went flying from the impact.

All movement accelerated at once to almost fast-forward intensity. People scattered like the very bomb fragments they so feared. Four automatic pistols appeared as if by magic, swinging about to cover the room. Leo threw himself on top of the human heap made by his secretary and his President, offering his own body as a blast shield. Two of the Secret Service fell into a crouch on either side of that pile, not yet knowing from which direction the danger approached but ready to give their lives to stop it. The other two leaped back against the walls, sharp eyes raking every window and door for any glimpse of a potential target. Toby dodged behind Mrs. Landingham's desk, yanking the secretary down with him and leaning protectively over her. C.J. ducked around a substantial armchair that might provide at least some shelter. Sam lunged sideways so fast he bumped into the towering potted plant that he'd intended to use for cover, and instead brought it down on top of himself in a parody of camouflage, as though if no one could see him then he couldn't be hit. Josh shoved Mandy towards another end-table, the only other possible barrier around - which left him no time to join her, so he just dove to the carpet and covered his head with both hands, praying that whoever started shooting would aim *high*.

In a single heartbeat this office, almost always humming with governmental business during daylight hours, was transformed into a macabre art gallery as everyone solidified like statues, holding their collective breath.

Waiting together. For flying bullets. Exploding shrapnel. Anything at all.

Except *nothing* at all.

The utter silence lengthened, the tension drawing out unbearably. Limbs trembled with the effort to stay motionless and silent. Eyes darted in all directions; no one dared move more than that. C.J. sank her polished fingernails into the wooden chair frame, knuckles white. Josh made no attempt to scuttle out of sight, unwilling to attract attention with motion. Sam did everything he could to prevent the plant leaves around him from quivering, for the same reason. Mandy huddled under the table where she had rolled and held its two closest legs as though they were prison bars, between which she stared like a captive of fear. Toby glanced down at Mrs. Landingham, who just kept her head lowered and eyes closed and waited for everything to be over, one way or another. Leo scanned as much of the room as he could without turning his head, teeth clenched. Margaret's teeth were chattering, eyes screwed shut. The four trained killers present, hired for precisely this moment, were primed to move on the faintest hint of a threat. All of them expected a holocaust at any instant, feeling universally exposed and helpless to prevent whatever violence was about to strike.

And still the moments continued to tick past, stillness unbroken, silence complete except for forcibly restrained respirations and pounding heart-rates.

Finally, the Secret Service agents traded nods, and those still standing edged towards the tall patio doors leading out onto the veranda and the back lawn, one on either side of Mrs. Landingham's desk. These patio doors were closed, yet contained more glass than anything else; clearly, with all interior doors closed *and* opaque, no assault could come from any other direction except outside. Both bodyguards peered cautiously out. At last one of them took the initiative, swung open the far left door and charged through, backed up by his partner, hoping that they could draw enemy fire, flush out their target, and - just maybe - live to tell about it.

And nothing happened.

No one else really thought it safe enough to stir just yet. But the spell was finally shattered, not by the Secret Service giving the all-clear as regulations dictated, but by a somewhat muffled yet clearly irritated - and unmistakable - voice's rather peevish complaint.

"Would it interest anyone to know that I'm suffocating down here?"

That definitely gave everyone permission to move. Leo looked down, as if he'd forgotten that this little pile-up was made of people, then eased himself off. The two flanking agents likewise rose and drew back, at least a little. Margaret was next, scrambling to her feet with alacrity, horrified at what she'd done. C.J. peeked around her chair, Mandy peered out from under her table, Toby raised his head over the desk, Josh lifted his head off the floor, and Sam moved a thick branch away from his face.

All of them just gaped at the sight of their President stretched out prone on the carpet, now resting on his elbows, head propped up by one hand and fingers of the other hand drumming away. The very image of strained patience, not at all as though he might have expected to die mere moments ago.

No one dared say a thing.

Finally, he rolled over into a sitting position and surveyed the ring of taller-than-usual faces fastened on him. Looking less presidential than usual with a dislodged lock of hair dangling over his forehead, his suit rumpled and his tie askew... and with a distinct trickle of blood working its way down his face from a gash above the right eye.

He must have felt it, even if their mutual expressions didn't shout it out. His hand touched the point of discomfort, and came away with fingertips crimson.

Typically, he just raised one eyebrow in academic observation. "And bleeding, it would seem."

That brought everyone not already upright to his or her feet at once, like so many contact targets resetting in a pinball game after being hit for the score. Toby helped Mrs. Landingham; she smiled gratefully at him. Yet still it was as if everyone else had been stricken dumb by this inexplicable chain of events.

One of the two Secret Service agents re-entered from the veranda at that moment, drawing all eyes. If he found anything odd about President Bartlet seated on the floor while everyone else clustered voicelessly around him, he gave no sign. Nor did he react to the sight of injury on the person of the man he was supposed to defend to the death.

"There's no one here, sir. There couldn't have been - no alarms were tripped. But we'll sweep the grounds anyway, just to be sure."

The Man nodded silently, dismissing him to see to it. Two other agents still remained on hand, in case someone *else* needed attending to.

By now "Eagle", as the Secret Service sometimes referred to their charge in covert radio communications, had aimed his eagle eye at the person responsible for this apparent false alarm. His features were unreadable, and he still made no effort to rise.

Everyone else looked as well, with their own varieties of emotion.

Margaret's expression suggested she was about to bolt from the room, or sink through the floor. Somehow, she managed to lock herself into attention... exactly as a prisoner who awaits sentencing from the Supreme Court.

And again the President spoke first. Without shifting his gaze. "Leo, have you been giving our staff lessons in football tackling?"

Several of them smiled. Releasing the terrible anxiety at last.

The Chief of Staff wore the broadest grin of all, mostly to reassure his secretary that she wasn't about to be summarily executed. "Not recently, sir. Do you think any of them might benefit from a refresher course?"

Margaret's ashen complexion began to retrieve some color.

Now that she wasn't expecting him to tear into her personally, the President extended both hands and allowed Leo and the nearest agent to assist him to his feet.

"Well, I know who you can use to set the standard." And at last he too smiled. Straightening blazer and tie in a silent declaration that things were returning to normal. "I'll say this much, Margaret: I'm very thankful that you weren't playing college football at the same time *I* was. I'd hate to meet you on the field."

She almost laughed, her sheer embarrassment easing before his warmth. A bit. "Thank you, sir - I think. I'm *so* sorry. Are you all right, sir?"

Bartlet waved away any concern about himself. "What, you think your Chief Executive's too delicate to take a little manhandling around here? Then you haven't seen what Congress puts me through. However," he added only half in jest, "in *your* case, I would appreciate enough forewarning next time to get my helmet on first."

Margaret flushed red, her smile sticking in place. "Yes, *sir*."

"And speaking of which, Mr. President," Mrs. Landingham interposed, "why don't you sit down a moment." She already had a few tissues in hand.

He rolled his eyes. "Tell you what, Mrs. Landingham. I'll submit to your ministrations on the condition that there is no one else here who needs them more than I." And he looked hard at every other person in the room. Masking concern for his staff's welfare with banter, yet the concern was genuine for all that.

When no one else spoke up, Sam did. "Do the plants count, sir?" He stepped away from the toppled palm and its drift of spilled potting soil.

Grins flashed on all sides.

"Or my nails?" C.J. offered. She'd broken a couple with her death-grip on that wooden chair frame.

"Or my wardrobe?" Mandy wondered, straightening her rumpled skirt suit.

"Or my dignity?" Josh put in, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Toby gazed at him in disbelief. "*Your* dignity?"

The President shook his head in feigned despair as he settled on the edge of his secretary's desk, folded his arms, and stoically endured her first aid. "Well, I guess that was a fine demonstration of *almost* everyone's ability to steer themselves out of disaster's way in a real crisis. Why is it we can't seem to manage that during everyday business?" And was rewarded by a chorus of chuckles.

Leo reinstated a serious note. "Margaret, what exactly did you *see?*"

She flushed again, especially when everyone again turned to look at her as the cause of all this.

"I saw - I'm absolutely *certain* that I saw - a gun pointing into the room through the far door, from the outside."

The two agents still present converged on those patio doors, guns once again at the ready. But their lack of violent action made it clear that there was nothing in sight.

Toby frowned. "Those doors were closed the whole time. A gun couldn't have protruded *inside*."

"Maybe you saw a *shadow* of a gun, cast on one of the pillars outside?" Sam suggested.

Margaret shook her head emphatically. "No, it was definitely closer than that."

"But that still doesn't explain how anyone or any *thing* could get right up to the windows in the first place," C.J. pointed out. "There are alarms everywhere. The trespasser would have to have wings."

Josh exhaled. "Well, that narrows down the list of suspects to Superman and a well-armed carrier pigeon." At which Mandy gave him an unamused shove.

Margaret was actually starting to look angry. "I know what I saw. I did *not* imagine it. The long barrel and the hammer were as clear as day. Besides, I'm hardly in the habit of overreacting like that."

Leo's grin had returned. "Hey, there are worse habits to develop. Better safe than sorry."

"Speak for yourself, Leo," the President cut in. "You were on *top* of the pile."

Mrs. Landingham stepped back at that moment, having wiped away the relatively small bloodstain and revealing a minor cut near his eyebrow. "That's the best I can do, sir."

"Thanks." He snorted - not disparaging her work. "Never thought a round table leg could be quite so sharp."

"You will have a doctor look at it now, sir?" she pressed. "If you're lucky, you won't require stitches."

He tried to keep a straight face. "Why, Mrs. Landingham, I'm surprised you haven't already whipped out a needle and thread and seen to it yourself."

She tipped her head sideways, perfectly deadpan. "Well, if you insist, sir. I was under the impression that you might prefer something less conspicuous, but I do believe I have a spool in neon pink somewhere - "

Bartlet knew when he was bested and stood. "I think I'll take my chances with the medic. Perhaps *he* can keep to red, white and blue."

Margaret was looking pretty mortified again. She swallowed with difficulty and stepped forward, all but hanging her head. "Mr. President, I - "

"Hey, relax." His eyes twinkled impishly. "After all, quite aside from making my day, I daresay you've just made history!"

She blinked. This had to be a joke, but keeping up with his mercurial moods was a challenge on a *good* day. "Sir?"

"Sure! When was the last time anyone assaulted the President of the United States and got away with it? They'll have to write you into the textbooks."

This time Margaret met his smile. "Well, sir, in that case I suppose I should feel flattered. But to be honest, I really think I'd rather achieve notoriety some other way."

"Oh, all right. We won't tell the world." The President paused for one deliberate beat, long enough to let her expression shift back to relief. "Just the White House."

She couldn't choke back her groan in time, punctuated by the laughter on all sides. Secrets were impossible to keep inside this building, either from its staff or from the community beyond, and no one knew that better than its premier resident.

Bartlet finally relented. "But seriously, Margaret; I owe you a vote of thanks. False alarm or no false alarm, I appreciate the gesture."

Blushing again, Leo's secretary scrambled for words. The best she could do on such short notice was, "It was a pleasure, sir."

His eyebrows lifted skyward. "Oh, really? Now *I'm* flattered. But don't worry, I won't tell the First Lady you said that." And, to put a fresh point on his genuine gratitude, he extended his hand.

The others present to witness this solemn moment were appropriately silent as she accepted the presidential handshake with evident gratefulness herself.

And cried out again.

Not in fear, this time - in pain.

Everyone started anew. The President immediately let go as she flinched under the pressure and jerked her right hand back, cradling it protectively with her left.

Leo stepped forward at once. "What?"

When Margaret spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. "Nothing. I  
... must've banged it against something." Her effort at normalcy rather lacked in conviction. Clearly that adrenaline trip had masked any discomfort until after the knowledge had sunk in that she wasn't bound for Death Row.

"Nothing, huh?" He took her gently by the arm like an escort. "Come on, you're seeing the doctor right now." And then looked straight at his President. "*Both* of you."

Bartlet stood on his dignity and glowered at such presumption to order *him* about. Leo returned the glare without giving an inch. Seeing that in this matter his Chief of Staff was inflexible, the President sighed and acquiesced.

"What was that old proverb about power corrupting?"


	2. Shadow of the Gun 2

 

**Shadow of the Gun**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** The Senior Staff  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** YTEEN  
**Disclaimer:** This is an original short story spawned by the imagination of SheilaVR, based upon the creation of Aaron Sorkin, with the obligatory nod to Warner Brothers Television and NBC. No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...  
**Summary:** What would YOU do to protect the President of the United States?”   


* * *

As these two old friends entered the Oval Office some time later, it would have been evident to any observer just what topic was under discussion. The mid-sized, flesh-toned medical dressing rode in splendid prominence upon the presidential brow.

"You know," Leo commented merrily, "one of my favorite pictures of JFK shows him with a band-aid just like yours. Apparently he banged his head while crawling under the furniture of this very room. Playing hide-and-seek with young John - or was it Caroline?"

Bartlet didn't even honor him with a glance. "You're doing a lousy job of changing the subject."

"I'm merely pointing out that there's an historical precedent here," Leo persisted, obviously enjoying himself. "You should feel proud to uphold it."

The President moved behind his desk, where no one else dared follow, and suddenly fixed his Chief of Staff with a baleful look under lowered brows. For all his famed joviality, this man could be every bit as formidable as his office suggested, and then some.

"I'm fully aware of the historical precedents attached, thank you. What I'm feeling right now is *anger*."

From that cold turn of voice, Leo realized he was pressing his luck a little hard for safety's sake, and came to full attention without rebutting. For a moment, very much like any other subordinate brought up on charges.

"The Secret Service have a specific function to perform, Leo. And that includes protecting *you* as well. Or had you forgotten?"

This was no time to take liberties. "No, sir."

"Well, you could've fooled *me*. You didn't exactly make it easy on them today." The President likewise held himself straight and tall, as though delivering judgment. "In a security breach you and I are supposed to present *two* targets, not one. Would you care to explain just what you were thinking earlier?"

He'd thanked Margaret for the exact same sentiment with rather more grace than this. Leo stood his ground, looking wounded at such treatment and at being asked such a question in the first place. "Offhand, sir, I believe I was thinking about preserving your life, so that you would actually be *able* to chew me out about this at a later time."

Bartlet planted both fists on his desk blotter and leaned closer. "It's not your job to protect me, Leo!"

Rising to the challenge, his Chief of Staff stepped forward and mirrored that stance perfectly. Their faces were inches apart. "Friendship aside, sir, I think it should quite naturally be considered the duty of *any* right-thinking American citizen!"

"Well, then, *friendship aside*, I really don't enjoy the thought of *anyone* dying in my defense. If such a sacrifice does become necessary, at least it should be paid by people who are trained for that task and know the risks!"

"Well, sir, you'll please excuse me if I say I don't feel very repentant about the order of my priorities in such a situation." Formality can be a powerful weapon between friends.

The subtext beneath their locked gaze and surging emotions filled the Oval Office as loudly as any words actually spoken.

The President's blue eyes narrowed. "Answer me truthfully, Leo: which one of us is more vital to running this place?"

His best friend paused, lips pursing in almost theatrical consideration. Bartlet quickly lost patience with this attempt at levity. "All right, you don't have to hesitate *that* much."

Leo straightened again, both to ease the confrontation and to confirm his lower rank. "Okay, *you* are." Which certainly *should* be the expected response.

Hi boss heaved a sigh of exasperation. "And after all that deep thought, you still got the answer wrong."

"*Mr. President - *" Placing rather exaggerated emphasis on The Man's exalted position.

"Leo, if anything happened to me, you'd still be here to keep the whole country working smoothly."

"Sir, if anything happened to you, I'd be working with the *Vice*-President."

The President hesitated at *that* thought. "Mm. Good point. Of course," he countered, his nature's demand for humor reasserting itself at last, "if anything happened to *you*, *I'd* have to work with him."

Leo finally permitted himself a grin. "My condolences. And I'm *really* sorry I wouldn't be there to watch."

Both looked aside from each other, almost guiltily, and a sense of returning comradeship filled the void of anger so recently between them.

At length Bartlet lowered his head and exhaled. "What were we arguing about?"

His Chief of Staff cast a glance at the ceiling, as though the answer hung there above their heads. It was a rare occasion indeed when they almost came to blows over an issue. That such an altercation would be about which one of them most wanted to protect the other... What better definition of friendship? "Slipped my mind."

The President drew himself up as well. "Look, Leo, I can't do without you. The *Government* can't do without you. And even though Hoynes may *think* he can, he just doesn't know any better." He gave his old friend the old warm smile. "So ease up on the heroics, will you? I don't want another scare like that one anytime soon."

Reassured that everything was back to normal, Leo replied with his patented look of innocence. "Well, sir, I'll try. You know, anything for the welfare of the nation. I suppose *not* protecting the President *could* fall into that category... "

"All right, already." They shared a chuckle. "Oh, and do me a favor: keep an eye on Margaret, okay? If she's trying out for the Secret Service, I want to know it."

* * *

Meanwhile, just one closed door away, Margaret faced her own war of self-justification. One of the agents who had been present at the *incident* an hour past was conducting the required official investigation, and doing his level best to prove her crazy at the same time.

"How could you see something that detailed from across the room? Especially with people passing in front of you?"

"I don't know!" she insisted. "I was standing here." And she demonstrated, marking places and movement with her left hand. Her right now resided in a tensor bandage and arm sling, in tribute to her presidential tackle. "I started moving towards Mr. McGarry, to get his attention before he could leave, just as the President and you four went by. Mr. McGarry was on the President's right, so I naturally had to look in the direction of the windows to make eye contact with him." She pointed to the last patio door with conviction. "Right there."

Even Mrs. Landingham, back at her desk and trying to ignore them both, glanced that way. So did the worker crouched beside her desk, re-potting the palm tree Sam had upset.

And, as before, there was nothing to see.

"You're *sure* it wasn't just a shadow?"

"Well, if it *was*, it was an almighty black one."

"It *is* a very sunny day," Mrs. Landingham supplied quietly, trying to be helpful but not a nuisance. "Nice, dark shadows."

"And the sun has moved quite a bit over the last hour," the agent positively groused, as though that celestial body were to blame. "*And*, there's nothing close to the outside wall that could possibly cast such a precise shadow near the windows."

"All right, then - how about something in here?" Margaret threw a critical eye at any surface that might provide the answer.

"The sun's quite high at 10:30 AM; if there is something in here that reflected it, it would have to be something low." With an air of humoring this flighty employee, the agent glanced across the carpet, found no inspiration, and moved on to the tables. Looking for anything that would have been within the sun's reach at midmorning.

"How's your hand, dear?" Mrs. Landingham asked during this interlude.

Margaret managed a single-shoulder shrug. "Just a sprain. I suddenly have a great sympathy for football players. And I will say that I've never been so glad to be left-handed."

"Excuse me, please, ma'am."

The President's secretary sat back in some surprise as the agent turned his attention to her desk. He touched a shiny paperweight, and then her polished nameplate. Neither of them, however, could have likely volleyed a sunbeam upward enough to resemble human height.

Until he picked up a small picture frame of Mrs. Landingham's twin sons - and its glass pane sent a flash of pure sunshine back into his eyes.

"You know," he admitted readily enough, blinking around the after-images, "this just might have done it. The sun would've been right on this desk at that time."

"Great!" However, Margaret's pleasure soured quickly. "But what on earth cast the shadow of the gun barrel I saw? What around here even *looks* like a gun?"

"Has anything in this room been moved since the incident?" the agent demanded.

"Not a thing," Mrs. Landingham assured him. "Even the palm's back where it belonged."

In the sudden quiet that followed her statement, three pairs of eyes flashed together in mutual comprehension.

The worker, on his knees with a trowel, noticed this peculiar silence and looked up in wonder. To find all three of them focused on him.

"What?" he asked uneasily.

"Where *exactly* does that thing go?" the agent demanded.

"Uh... " Rather intimidated that he should suddenly be the center of attention, the worker hesitated before moving the huge pot over another handspan or so. "Here."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. This indentation on the carpet is from the pot's weight."

"All right. And which way was it facing?"

"Um... " The worker scratched his head in total uncertainty. Even the President's secretary, who sat beside it every day, couldn't be sure.

The agent sighed. "Okay, we'll do it the hard way." He turned Mrs. Landingham's frame into the sun again, adjusting its angle in his hands until it flung silver light upon the palm's fronds. Sure enough, a sharp shadow hit the opposite wall, right beside the last patio door.

However, nothing in the shadow's shape looked even remotely like a weapon.

Yet.

"Now rotate the pot. Slowly."

Completely confused, the worker complied. The entire plant waved with each motion, eliciting a snap from the agent to shift even more carefully. Inch by tedious inch, the palm assumed a different orientation to the wall, and the shadow changed accordingly. Branches and fronds slid around each other, creating multiple patterns of light and dark -

All at once, Margaret couldn't suppress a gasp. Much like last time.

And much like last time, everyone froze for one instant.

On the wall, near the last patio door, two of the most outreaching branches joined with their combined fronds to form the near-perfect image of a shadowy pistol on white paint, exactly as though a handgun were aimed at them right now from directly outside.


End file.
